


Ruin Your Sleep

by countess7



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 15:37:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countess7/pseuds/countess7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 4x04; Kurt can’t sleep, so he tries the traditional method used to fight insomnia (hint: masturbation).  He can’t help but think of Blaine.  Cue angsty wank!fic. (first posted to tumblr November 5, 2012)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruin Your Sleep

Kurt groans and rolls over onto his back, holding his covers up with his left arm so he doesn’t get completely tangled. He tries to re-settle because he’s tired, and he wants the peaceful blankness of sleep, but his mind is full, and he can’t.

He considers getting up to make himself some tea, but doesn’t because all that movement will just wake him up even more. Sighing, he tries to will his body to fall asleep with some deep breathing. He closes his eyes and takes 10 slow breaths in and out, focusing on the way his chest swells and sinks in turn.

It doesn’t work.

He tries relaxing all his muscle groups, one at a time, starting with his feet. He clenches his toes for five beats, then relaxes them for five beats. He flexes his ankles and points his toes. He works his way up his body, tightening his calves, thighs, ass, and abs. He makes a quick detour back down to his fingers and moves through his hands, arms, and chest, before squeezing and releasing his back and his neck. He’s hoping to feel like a soft, wet noodle and drop into dreamless oblivion.

He does not.

This leaves only one other option, really. Rachel is out with friends, because she doesn’t have class on Fridays, so he has the necessary solitude he prefers. He looks at his night-table and decides against music; he just wants to get off and get some sleep, he has to work in the morning.

He grabs his lube and pulls his underwear to mid-thigh. Hopefully, he can do this quickly and without any unwanted thoughts and images springing to mind. He throws the covers off, rubs his hands up and down his thighs, and shivers a little. He curves his left hand slowly toward the inside of his thigh and lightly runs his fingertips over his balls. He shivers again. He cups himself, pulls his underwear further down, kicks them off, and drops his thighs open like a frog.

He slides his right hand inward from his thigh to his dick and drags his knuckles up and down until he’s half-hard, then he warms some lube in his palms and starts to stroke. He goes slowly at first, not too tight, and avoids the head. He sucks in a stuttering breath when he’s fully hard, closes his fist a bit more, adds a twist on the downstroke.

He can feel a whine building in his throat, looks down the length of his body, sees the head of his cock gliding slickly through the ring of his thumb and forefinger, smoothes his thumb over the head on the next upstroke. Suddenly, Blaine’s face is all he can see, and he’s being assaulted by memories of the first time they were naked and vulnerable together, wrapped around each other and kissing, Blaine’s shy hand touching him so sweetly, so perfectly.

Fuck.

His hands fall away from his body and he gulps for air, closing his eyes and willing himself not to cry. When his breathing slows, he opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling, biting his bottom lip. He doesn’t want to think about Blaine.

He wants to fall asleep, and if can get _off_ , he will. So, he takes a deep breath, and tries to get lost in the smooth slide of his pumping fist. He rolls his balls in his left hand, puts his feet flat on the bed, rocks his hips as the heat builds. He runs the flat of his thumb along the ridge at the top of his shaft and lets out a long, shuddering moan. Behind his eyelids he can see Blaine smiling up at him from between his legs, hands around his thighs, running his tongue around the head of Kurt’s cock in a slow tease.

Kurt opens his eyes as his breath punches out of him; he brings his hands up to his chest to hug himself, but they’re covered in lube so crosses them awkwardly in front of himself. His pulse is throbbing everywhere, and it’s uncomfortable. He hates this whiplash of emotion; he hates being this out of control.

He really doesn’t want to think about Blaine.

He takes slow, even breaths until he’s calm and sits up. He rubs his hands clean on his underwear, tosses them into his laundry basket, and flops gracelessly back onto his pillows, pulling his covers over himself.

He takes a deep breath, presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, and lets it slowly out through his nose.

He’s really angry at Blaine.

Blaine fucking Anderson.

He laughs mirthlessly. His eyes get wet; he blinks once, twice, scrubs the back of his hand under his nose. He can feel himself making a face.

He just doesn’t understand why this happened, and he’s really angry that it did. He has a lot of questions, but he hasn’t been in contact with Blaine at all, hasn’t asked him any of them.

He hasn’t asked him if he knows what a dick move it was to blame the cheating on Kurt because he wasn’t there. Blaine was the one who pushed Kurt to move to New York in the first place; Kurt’s plan was to stay in Lima with Blaine until they could move there _together_.

He hasn’t asked him why he couldn’t just open his mouth and tell him he was lonely. OK, Kurt’s been really preoccupied and busy and excited about living in another city and working at Vogue, but why didn’t Blaine just say _Kurt, I need you. I need to talk to you_. Why can’t Blaine ever just talk about what he needs? What he’s feeling? They don’t live in the same place anymore; open, honest communication is the most important thing, and it’s not Kurt’s fault that Blaine is apparently completely incapable of that.

He hasn’t asked him why, if he could buy a same-day plane ticket, he didn’t just come visit sooner.

He hasn’t asked him why they scheduled phone dates in the middle of the day when neither of them had time to talk. Kurt inevitably had to take a work call, Blaine had to go to class, and one or both of them ended up with hurt feelings.

He hasn’t asked Blaine anything else about who the hook-up was. He doesn’t know how they met or where they went or where they slept together. He doesn’t know if Blaine let this guy touch him in his bed, where so many of _their_ memories were made or _how_ he touched him and _where_. He doesn’t know if Blaine kissed him or stroked him or sucked him. He doesn’t know.

He chokes back the angry sob that’s threatening to climb out of his chest; he punches his pillow a few times, kicks the mattress.

He doesn’t know why Blaine did this, he hasn’t asked.

He doesn’t know if there was a moment where Blaine thought about the consequences, about what would happen when Kurt found out. He doesn’t know if he thought Kurt would forgive him and went ahead with it or if he knew he wouldn’t and did it anyway.

He doesn’t know why Blaine gave him a promise ring last Christmas, and threw all those promises away less than a year later.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do now.

He’s only 18, and Blaine is his high school boyfriend. High school romance doesn’t last forever; the smug superiority he’d privately enjoyed in believing his would is just one more thing he’s lost.

His chest heaves, and he covers his face with his pillow and screams into it until he feels better.

He really did think he and Blaine would be together forever, and it aches to think it’s over. He’s so angry with him, but he’s still so in love with him, too, and he hates him a little for that.

He doesn’t want to have to forgive him for this; he doesn’t know if he can. He doesn’t know if he can live without him, either.

This feels too big, it’s too much; he’s already dealing with so many new things, living on his own, supporting himself, working full-time. He’s not ready to face this kind of serious emotional maturity on top of everything else.

“Why did you do this to me, Blaine Anderson?” Kurt asks the silent apartment.

He rolls over and looks at his alarm clock; it’s just before one o’clock. If he doesn’t fall asleep soon, Rachel will know he’s awake and will crawl into bed with him, because she has no sense of personal boundaries. Hating himself a little, feeling a bit weak, he reaches for his lube, and lets himself think about Blaine as he strokes himself.

He starts slowly again, working the base of the shaft until he’s fully hard, and then twisting near the head. Blaine used to kiss him, tangle their legs together, and wind his left arm underneath Kurt to hug him close while he stroked him. Kurt would gasp his orgasm against Blaine’s lips while Blaine encouraged him _come on baby, so hot, give it up, give it up to me_.

He tightens his fist a fraction as he speeds up, thumbing over the head every third or fourth stroke, leaking steadily, smearing it around. Kurt remembers staring at Blaine’s eyelashes and trying desperately not to come the minute Blaine’s sweet mouth touched him the first time he went down on him. He’ll never forget the way he crawled up his body, after, his flushed face, his gorgeous smile.

Kurt’s pumping his fist quickly now, lifting his hips, whimpering. He misses kissing Blaine, they used to make out for hours; naked, kissing, wrapped around each other, they’d rub off against each other again and again. He’d run his hands through Blaine’s hair or cup his face, drag his hands over the muscles in his back or his arms, feel his heartbeat pressed against his own. Blaine whispering _I love you_ into his skin when he came.

Kurt’s shaking, straining; he uses the palm of his hand to grind his balls against himself, he misses the weight and pressure of another body, of _Blaine_. Pressed hot and sweaty to Blaine’s back, holding him as he thrusts between Blaine’s slick, tightly closed thighs, sucking on his neck and whispering in his ear. Blaine’s hands clutching his biceps, moving with him and moaning, offering himself up so easily. Blaine against him, Blaine in his arms, Blaine in his arms, Blaine in his arms, Blaine--

A sharp, wrenching spark runs through him, tightening his abs and curling him up, lifting his head and shoulders off the bed. He can see him perfectly, his sweaty, sex-mussed curls, his kissed-flushed mouth, his lazy, sated smile. He gasps as he comes over his fist, stroking steadily, wringing out every last bit of pleasure that he can.

Gravity tugs him back down and he collapses easily, panting harshly, mouth open, eyes wet. When he can breathe with his mouth closed, he decides his t-shirt will suffer the same fate as his underwear. He’s proud of himself when he gets that in the laundry basket as well, and hunches down into his covers.

Blaine’s not here with him; Kurt doesn’t know if ever will be again. Kurt doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know if he can forgive him for this; doesn’t know if he can live without him. Everything’s so much harder, bleaker without him.

Kurt’s sleepy now, a warm lassitude flowing over him. He sighs, yawns, and thinks of Blaine’s eyes as he drops into unconsciousness.


End file.
